


you wish i was yours (and i hope that you're mine)

by dormant_bender



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, BAMF Gamora (Marvel), Doppelganger, Eventual Romance, F/M, Gamora (Marvel) Lives, Hate Sex, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by Music, Kinda?, Light Dom/sub, Not Actually Unrequited Love, POV Gamora (Marvel), Peter Quill Feels, Peter Quill Needs a Hug, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Sassy Peter Quill, Smut, Unhealthy Relationships, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2020-09-24 05:02:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20352817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormant_bender/pseuds/dormant_bender
Summary: Peter Quill can never leave well-enough alone, hence his persistent search of the elusive Gamora.However; he doesn't expect to be captured and confronted about his, admittedly, light stalking.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so . . . i haven't written anything, let alone smut, in forever. i kept having this thought of peter low-key stalking gamora to try and woo her, but then she gets frustrated and is like: "lemme teach this idiot a lesson." 
> 
> oof.
> 
> enjoy. the title is from the song "lurk" by the neighborhood. [**here**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xfd7uYsKlBo)

  
  
  
  


  
  
  


It was unusually frigid and damp within the tunnel system of the cave, though nothing rivaled the coldness in dark eyes as she glared at her captive. His head is bowed, shoulders hunched forward, messy locks falling into his closed lids. She takes a moment to overlook him once more, he was bare at the torso with the exception of that damned leather jacket he so adored, and even more barren below the waist.

  


"Face me," instructs the ombre-haired woman: she's pleased by his willingness to comply. Green eyes are blackened and blown to astronomical proportions, nearly the size of Xandar's multiple moons; she almost quirks a smirk at that. "What have I told you about attempting to discover my whereabouts after I so kindly joined your battle against Thanos?"

  


Peter opened his mouth to speak, but lowers his head once more solemnly. "I don't think '_kindly_' is the appropriate word for kicking my jewels around like a hackysack." murmurs the brunet, whose hair is roughly yanked, garnering his attention once more.

  


"Look at me when I address you, Peter Quill." She ponders the unfamiliar word for a second, has the mind to ask, but she refuses to compromise her position as the superior one. "No more usage of your vague, Terran vocabulary, otherwise my hand will be forced once more."

  


"Like this wasn't enough?" Peter attempts to shift his wrists from their uncomfortable bindings, some type of platelets in the form of handcuffs preventing him from doing so. 

  


Gamora presses her boot against his chest, not tolerating the blatant disrespect. She applies pressure, can see the reddening of his fair-skin beneath her ministrations and is relatively pleased, continuing until he thumps back in a heap upon the grimy, hard ground. He writhes at the temperature, she presumes, and hisses as he angles his hips off the ground.

  


But the closer she inspects him, the more apparent his arousal becomes. She finds vague intrigue at the sight of his cock twitching so primitively to life, watches as muscular thighs attempt to right himself, but to no avail. He does manage to wriggle himself against the rigid wall, chest heaving as he pants his exertion, dark eyes flickering to meet Gamora's once more; there seems to be a hint of fight still left in him, and it strangely excites her.

  


It elicits a pressure in her abdomen, a fire at the very pit of her stomach, that she hadn't experienced in years. Desire, it seems to hiss in the breeze that passes through the mouth of the cave, tickling the fine hairs near her ear, making her shiver involuntarily as she straightens her spine. 

  


"Was the other Gamora too spineless to treat you as you were meant to be treated?" inquires the former assassin, crouching down into a squat, eyes greedily travelling over his form; drinking in the sight of him. Where she had first found him a repulsive and impossible sight to bare, she now finds little things about him attractive—like the coarse hair that scatters his rugged form, from pectorals, down his chest and even further to the neatly-trimmed hair surrounding his cock. "You mean nothing to me, and I have no remorse for what has happened to you."

  


Peter visibly recoils at that, brows furrowing tightly at the center of his forehead, bottom lip poking out into an affronted frown. "You don't get to talk about her like that." He spits with venom dripping from his tone, sneering at the doppelganger: "Not after everything that's happened, not after Thanos took her away from me . . . "

  


Gamora almost winces at the name of her deceased father figure, it was still raw to an extent, even if she had played a hand in destroying the man. "Thanos took nothing from you, he took everything from me." She growls, eyes narrowing as she darts an arm forward, lithe fingers grasping the base of the brunet's throat: "You had a choice, you let her slip through your fingers like sand on Terran beaches, it was your fault." 

  


"No, _no_ . . . That's—_that's not true_ . . . "

  


"Does it hurt knowing that every promise you ever dedicated to her never came to fruition?" It was honest curiosity, something she contemplated when avoiding detection from those still seeking to hunt her to right her misdoings; after she knew of her counterpart, she oftentimes wondered what she could have been, but will never would be. 

  


"I loved her," gravels the brunet as the fingers continue to clench at his throat, swallowing deeply: "And I love you all the same."

  


Gamora releases his throat, can see the prick of tears begin to flow freely down his dirt-encrusted cheeks. She swears that there is an ounce of remorse within her system, swimming through her veins and tugging at the long-thought dead strings of her heart. For the first time since she had captured the male, who had been inconspicuously stalking her for what she could only assume was months, she breaks eye contact and releases a gruff sigh through her nostrils.

  


"I am not her, and I never will be." She acquiesces, muttering more to herself than to her audience. "Not now, at least, my opportunity for change died with my father." Her eyes are softened when she glances at Peter, who sniffles pitifully, maneuvering his shoulders to swipe away what tears he could. "However," she clenches her jaw tight. "There is one thing that I would like to steal from you, one thing that I am certain your Gamora never thought to take."

  


Peter makes an inquisitive noise in the back of his throat, a hopeful kind of noise that she has rarely heard in her line of business—she usually beat the hope out of her captives and set marks, never gave time to even begin to formulate hope. "If it's my heart, by all means, cut it outta me and serve it to yourself on a fucking platter. You can have it," he manages to quip lightheartedly, though the weathered expression on his countenance states otherwise.

  


An emerald hand reaches out to drag the pads of her fingers across one of his pectorals, smirking at the sight of the muscle jumping beneath her touch. She presses him back more firmly against the cave wall, straddling his lap in one swift motion, one hand fitting upon his shoulder while the other grasped his throat for leverage.

  


Before he can utter a peep, however, whether of approval or otherwise, she captures his mouth in a heated kiss. She wastes no time with being tentative or learning the curves of his lips, just dedicates her time to taking what was always rightfully, in some universe, hers. Her tongue drags across his bottom lip, tasting the dirt that clings there, roughly working his mouth open with hers.

  


He inhales sharply against her mouth, but allows the insistent intrusion. His head falls painfully back against the wall, though it was a welcome pain to the numbness he had been experiencing for months now. He aches to free his hands, to reach out and touch her, to pretend that she was genuinely his; yet he can't, still bound by the cuffs that have leave leeway to escape.

  


Her tongue traces every crevice of his hot cavern, grazing the roof of his mouth, eager for more of the heady taste she so desperately craves. It was maddening, comparable to her life growing up as a child of Thanos; wild and unpredictable, like an adrenaline rush, one she yearned for, like the first kill she had been assigned.

  


It started from the soles of her boots, surged up the veins in her legs to wrap around her thighs, ultimately sending the electricity to her core. She could feel the steady pulse between her legs, suddenly resenting the skintight leather of her attire. She finds herself focusing back on Peter, ravishing his bottom lip and tugging it between her teeth.

  


The sound he makes, a strangled cry that she was sure to remember, goes straight to her abdomen; and Gods, she was so slick with wanton desire, needed to relieve the ache that gradually builds as the seconds tick by. "So weak," she chastises as she reaches a hand down between his sturdy thighs, trembling slightly at her touch, slinking her small but powerful fist around his cock: "pathetic, even."

  


"Only for you," croaks the brunet, whose hips jerk into the welcoming warmth of her fist. 

  


"You would do anything I asked, wouldn't you?" Gamora presses, fingers moving tantalizingly slow along his length; she focuses her thumb on the head, smearing the pre-cum that has already gathered there. Peter nods vigorously, no shame about it, though his cheeks are delightfully crimson at the admission. "Would you give your life for mine?"

  


Peter whimpers pathetically as she begins a steady movement on his cock, stroking him from base to tip and back. Her hand is a firm, reassuring pressure, twisting on the upstroke, and sliding down roughly. He never liked it dry-fit, always preferred lube or even spit in the most sticky of situations, but he couldn't deny the depravity of it all.

  


Gamora feels smug as she abruptly halts her movements in favor of standing briefly to remove the offensive leather garment that adorns her hips, shoving them down her scarred thighs to reveal her mound. Jade eyes are blown wide at the sight of her bare, pleading with glassy eyes to touch, to worship like she deserved, but she wasn't one to grant demands other than her own.

  


Peter opens his mouth, yet no words utter from his lips—she had successfully taken away the rational side of his brain, she muses, and had effectively rendered him speechless. She settles back down onto his lap once more, resuming her previous position. She tugs at his cock, feeling it twitch within her palm a few moments, before rising slightly to position him at her entrance.

  


His eyes roll deliciously as she slowly sinks down upon his cock, reveling in the burn of being stretched so profusely. Groans emanate from the man as he becomes fully sheathed inside; she was warm and wet, and it felt like home to the man who had been roaming so aimlessly without her. Her velvet soft walls embrace him, clenching tight around him, so unbearably so that he has to force himself not to cum just yet.

  


"This is what you were so vehemently searching for, was it not?" Gamora prods, scoffing as she sinks the blunt edges of her nails into his shoulders. "To be taken advantaged of? To be dominated and to be used to all of your potential?"

  


Peter thrusts his hips toward the heat he was trapped within, anticipating the friction the action would cause. "You can take whatever you need, I'll do whatever you want." He sounds breathless already, eyes hazy and unfocused as he maintains eye contact. She swivels her hips experimentally, and his eyes are rolling once more: "_Gamora_ . . . "

  


Never had her name sounded so euphoric from someone's mouth before, and she was intent to force the name out once more. She begins to move her hips, slowly at first, working her way up to a grander momentum that would certainly leave him emptying inside her. But for now, she finds pleasure in teasing him, leaving him practically drooling at the mouth.

  


Her thighs clamp tight around his hips, sliding up and down his cock in a practiced rhythm, dark eyes examining every obscene glint that flickers across his countenance; the way he stared at her like she was the most sultry being in the galaxy, like she held the key to the universe itself, like he needed her like he needed the graces of the Gods, to deliver him from whatever fate he had been condemned to.

  


She uses that as fuel as she ruts against him, the salacious sound of skin slapping skin and the plunging of his cock into her wet cavern driving her senses into overdrive. Her eyes are almost pitch black with the debauchery of it all, taking what was hers and shamelessly at that.

  


His hips weakly meet hers with abandon as she slams down upon his cock, forcing him in deeper. His head has fallen back against the wall once more, eyes clenched tightly shut, arms struggling to rid himself of the cuffs—it was a fruitless attempt, but watching him struggle so gravely leaves her releasing a ragged moan.

  


Her hands meets his neck once more, applying gentle pressure there, until the man is left gasping within her clutches. He struggles to inhale, eyes pleading with her, cock pulsing at the intensity of it all. And before she registers what was happening, he steels and goes rigid, releasing deep within her, eyes crossing and blinking rapidly as he spasms.

  


His thighs tremble as he twitches with reckless abandon into her soaking heat, releasing an outstretched groan. "Holy shit," he elongates the vulgar word as the violent waves of his orgasm wrack through his system, rendering him temporarily blind, save for the white-hot pulse in his vision.

  


She releases his throat in favor of fiercely rubbing her clit, still mercilessly slamming down on his cock. Seeing him come undone like that, like he had experienced a revelation by the Gods, leaves her choking on a sob as she practically gushes around his cock—clenching him tight, holding him still, her chest rapidly rising and falling as she cums. Her head falls back, perspired locks freely flowing behind her, milking him of his release.

  


Peter is still fidgety by the time she slowly descends from her high, his eyes never once abandoning her form, seemingly transfixed. "Please," he gravels, mouth barren and void of moisture. "tell me this is real."

  


Gamora yearns to soothe the worried lines from his forehead with her fingers, but thinks against it. She can feel him softening inside her, so she raises slightly, allowing him to slip out from within her. "You mean nothing to me, Peter Quill." She retorts, though her eyes are sympathetic.

  


The green-skinned woman rises to her feet, wavering slightly from side to side, as she tugs the leather leggings back up her calves and thighs. She haphazardly wipes her hands upon the leather, ultimately staining it, not that she bothers to linger on that for long. Peter looks absolutely broken by the statement, and she swears she can see the prick of tears beginning to form once more within his green irises.

  


He looked so wrecked slumped there, shoulders hunching forward and mussed hair protruding in every direction and in impossible angles. Sweat drips steadily from his brow, down his cheek and subsequently pools within a collar bone; she wants to taste it, to see if it was as intoxicating as the rest of him. "Gamora, I—"

  


She raises a hand to silence him: "You are free to go, however, I must warn you about finding me once more." She pauses to fiddle with the cuffs, hearing a satisfying 'click!' as the treacherous thing was removed; she presses a button and they shrink to a size she can shove into one of her pockets. "Next time I will not be so forgiving."

  


Peter kneads his wrists in an attempt to alleviate the tension there, gazing up at her through his lashes—almost coy, in a way. "Maybe next time should be a thing, I'm down to see how ' _unforgiving_ ' you can be." She heaves an annoyed groan, withdrawing her dagger from one of her holsters to press firm against his throat. "Like I haven't been through this before," he seems almost grateful to be in the position he was in, strangely enjoyed the steel of the blade against his Adam's apple.

  


"You are the biggest idiot in the galaxy," concludes Gamora as she reluctantly removes the blade from his throat, crossing her arms over her chest instead. "Take your leave, and for the Gods' sake, take your filthy clothing with you."

  


He doesn't need to be told twice, the fierce expression she wears tells him that she wasn't playing around this time. He rushes to put on his things while she busies herself with picking the dirt from beneath her nails with the blade, eyes narrowed in concentration. She glances up at him periodically, taking in a few, final glimpses of his bare form.

  


"Mark my words, Quill, if you return—"

  


Before she can complete the threat, however, she was being pulled into an abrupt embrace; she grimaces at the affection, not quite used to being intimate in this way with anyone, let alone a Terran with whom her counterpart had relations. She shoves him forcibly away, not taking notice of the weight that falls into her back pocket, pointing a stern finger to the mouth of the cave.

  


"Out."

  


Peter raises his hands defensively, though he wears a broad grin. He swipes his fingers across his mouth, fondly lingering at the teeth marks that are seared into his skin. He glances over his shoulder at her in parting, eyes bright with mirth, wiggling his fingers in departure; after-all, Peter Quill never gave up on what he wanted.

  


She studies his retreating form, fighting the urge to smirk back at the man. Perhaps her counterpart had the right idea all along, though she would definitely need more convincing in the future. She shifts to jut her hip out, arms crossing over her chest once more, when she feels interference in her back pocket.

  


Brows furrowing, she makes to retrieve whatever was slipped in there, only to withdraw her hand with a small device cradled within it. Wrapped around it was a thin cord, the cord being plugged into the device itself. When she glances where the form had retreated, she had the expression of perplexity blatant on her countenance, yet couldn't question the gift since the man was long gone.

  


She hesitantly places one of the buds within her ear, and toys with the device until a title appears upon the screen—she assumes the last read title, but receives a surprise when an admittedly raucous melody begins to filter into her eardrums. 

  


**_♪♫_**_never gonna give you up,_  
_never gonna let you down._  
_never gonna run around and desert you._  
_never gonna make you cry,_  
_never gonna say good-bye._  
_never gonna tell a lie and hurt you._ **_♪♫_**

  


She clenches her fist around the device, glancing toward the mouth of the cave once more, this time with an ounce of fondness gracing her features. "What an idiot."

  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> honestly? 
> 
> i have no idea what this is, this was supposed to be bathroom counter smut ?? um ?? 
> 
> so many feels ??

  
  
  


There was never a time that impulse control had been implemented—not even once in Peter's thirty or so years of existence. Even as a child, he had decided when enough was enough and rarely was that ever the case, especially when it came to things that were sweet. 

  


Sweet like candy, _sweet_ like the toy cars he would play with, _sweet_ like his elementary school teacher with the massive jugs—and this was _a lot_ like that, and even young Peter could appreciate the finer things in life. Hence why he had followed the damning trail of the elusive emerald beauty once more, yearning more of whatever she had to offer. 

  


As bitter and often cruel as she proved to be, he had this thought the he could crack her, maybe break that facade she had been enforcing. Not that he wished for it to be any different, no, he reveled in the thought of falling in love all over again, despite the woman making it clear that she would remain that same brooding, intimidating and ever-independent woman he adored.

  


Whatever Gods above had both cursed and blessed him with this opportunity. Rocket is strolling up behind him, whistling lowly as he works on another gadget. He quirks a furry brow up at the man, "I know that face, that's the dumbass ' _I got a plan that ain't gonna work_ ' look." He snorts at just the thought: "go on, tell me about it, I need'a laugh today. Space pirate in there ain't cuttin' the quota."

  


Peter has the audacity to look smug about the plan that lingers on the tip of his tongue. "Nah, not a dumbass plan for once. More like the best, goddamn plan in the entirety of existence." He even emphasizes with the frantic movements of his hands, green eyes bright and lively as they reflect the encrypted files upon the screen now translating onto the dash, illuminating and contrasting against the bright stars beyond the glass.

  


"You total and complete moron." 

  


"Hey!" Offensive, much? Peter purses his lips, arms crossing defensively over his chest. "Like I haven't heard that before."

  


Rocket releases a sigh through his nose, one of those tell-tale signs that he was about to open his little mouth and say something completely unwarranted and quite possibly hurtful as fuck. "Listen, Quill . . . " Peter childishly cups hands over his ears, murmuring a ' _don't ruin this for me_ ' beneath his breath. But Rocket continues nonetheless, sliding the gadget into the captain's chair. He scratches at the back of his ears and they immediately slick down. "I know that ya' loved her 'nd all, but this isn't her—"

  


Scoffing and removing the file on the elusive beauty from the dash screen, he pockets the compressed dossier of information into his back pocket. "I mean, yeah, _duh_ ." He elongates the last word thoughtfully, flaring his nostrils. "But it is, though, just the one that ain't met me yet and I guarantee that I can make this work."

  


Rocket opens his mouth to speak, but is instead interrupted by a young adult Groot, who sports a mossy mustache of sorts. "I am Groot." 

  


"Yeah, what he said." 

  


By then, the massive man-child had managed to block out all outside interaction. He especially shuts down when Thor, the goddamned Adonis, saunters toward the captain's chair, offering a fond scratch behind the ears to an unsuspecting Rocket. "Ah, other planets to save already, rabbit?"

  


  


-

  


  


Peter Quill had never thought to return to Xandar, not since the collection of events he had endured there. Not to mention he wasn't exactly _allowed_ to be there in the first place, but anything can be bypassed with the right amount of units. The Guardians had taken up bounty hunting of sorts to make those extra units, using the pay-out to purchase new additions to the Benatar as well as other repairs (and personal use, let's not ignore that).

  


He had waited for the perfect day to sneak off the Benatar, reluctantly relinquishing duties to the aggravating space pirate, who had gone back and forth with him in a heated argument about already being the self-proclaimed captain. He rolls his eyes at just the mere thought, instead choosing to roll his neck and double check his clothing within the low budget hotel he had decided to reside in.

  


He had taken one of the Benatar space pods, having traveled the relatively close distance to the planet in record time. According to the dossier, Gamora would be traveling to a prestigious night club event in order to secure a deal for a device known as "Ianuae Magicae." Some fancy old English word for "teleportation" or something or another; he hadn't been that involved in the reading, other than the necessary information, of course.

  


Peter had decided to swipe someone else's formal dress robes—something black, overly tight and velvet. He looked like the definition of "pompous asshole," but at least that was the point. He adorned a perfectly pressed tie, black and white and patterned to finish the whole ordeal. 

  


"What a total dick."

  


He scoffs to himself, but leaves nonetheless toward the venue; some massive complex that looked more like a palace than anything else he had seen in the movies as a child. There was a long, black carpet outstretched toward the floating limousines, releasing only the most notable and wealthy.

  


It hadn't taken long, nor was it overly difficult, to ease into the venue behind a woman's billowing gown; something about crystals that had been used from the Collector's elite collection. Upon entrance, he glances about the well-lit establishment, candle-lit candelabras floating about within its own gravity all around the ceiling as well as decorative pieces illuminating each corner and crevice in a blinding glow. 

  


Upon spotting the bar, he rushes over nearly instantaneously, feeling a little out of place. Maybe it was the scruffy facial hair he adorned, maybe it was the fact that the blasters tucked beneath the band of his briefs and slacks was a hot reminder of why he had been there. He ordered something he couldn't pronounce, the barista setting down a glass of—of something that looked like a deep, bubbling purple mess.

  


Needless to say what happened next was bewildering, but also welcoming and invited. A powerful fist slams down a little too hard, garnering the attention of others, beside the filled glass. It splashes even, sloshing around inside the glass and splattering across the pristine marble counters.

  


"You are genuinely the most annoying variant of any species I have ever encountered in all of my years." 

  


Gamora delivers a sickly saccharine twist of the lips toward the alarmed barista, who reaches toward a button that would certainly call security in an instant. Peter notices, too. "Hey there, buddy, cool it. Just a bitter ex, nothin' to see here." 

  


The barista looks more complacent with this answer, offering a reluctant smile as he ventures down the length of the counter to serve other patrons. Almost as soon as he turns on the heel of his platformed dress shoes, an emerald hand is darting out to painfully twist his wrist, not enough to break it but just enough that an audible '**crack!**' is heard.

  


"What did I tell you before, about continuing to shamelessly trace my every move?"

  


Peter finds something wistful about the action, something peculiarly familiar. "Any harder and I could consider this foreplay," pleasantly grunts the man as she releases it abruptly, like she had been singed by the touch alone.

  


"I don't have time for your tomfoolery, Peter Quill." She doesn't sound angry this time, at least, more so weary than any real annoyance. "Granted, you discovered my transaction for the night, so you know exactly why I'm here." He stares at her eyes, but when she adjusts the straps over her shoulders, he decides to venture his gaze further. As the descent began, however, she interrupts his train of thought: "Do you understand?"

  


He flutters his lashes incredulously, like she honestly thought he had listened to the typical assessment of his intelligence and reckless behavior. He had been far more enamored in the outfit that she adorned—it was sleek and form-fitting with thin straps that connected to the full leather fit, cinched at the waist with a black harness equipped with shiny, silver buckles. As his gaze shifted lower, having to gulp deeply as he continued the tantalizing descent, he quirks his brows appreciatively at the thigh high boots she has on. There was only the slightest of heels for the boots, more suitable for combat and easier to run in, he assumed; always combat ready. 

  


He assumed there was more than likely some weapons laced somewhere in between the sleek attire and he was tempted to discover where they may reside. In a swift second, a butter knife has his thighs splaying open, the end of the blade sticking into the leather of the seat. "_Hooo_ly shit."

  


Gamora attempts to reign in the smirk that threatens to twitch at the corner of her mouth. "Now that I've so graciously earned your attention once more, perhaps you would heed my warning of staying out of my way." She makes to leave the counter, eyes rolling at the stupid adoration written all over his features.

  


He makes for her wrist, only lightly tugging at it. It's enough for her to whip into action, bending his arm at the elbow and slinging it flat against his back. She presses at the arm until he grunts at the pain resonating there. Her lips, dark and almost lavender tinted, press against the shell of his ear and whisper: "touch me again without my approval and that pitiful knife will ruin any chance of future pelvic sorcery." 

  


Peter shifts his neck to face her more clearly, capturing her narrowed gaze. "When are you gonna stop ignorin' this unspoken thing between us?" He points a finger to her and back to him, to which she quirks a brow. 

  


She hesitates slightly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "What ' _unspoken thing_ ' do you speak of?" prompts the beauty, lips ghosting dangerously close to his mouth now.

  


Her breath is sweet, smells of a black fruit only found on Xandar. "You know, _this_ ." She releases a derisive snort and frees him, placing her hands upon her hips. 

  


"This is nothing." Gamora stays there a moment longer, lingering by his side. He stretches out his arm, murmuring about how she ' _had to stop doing that_ ' or he'll get some form of ' _arthritis _.'

  


Peter lets her go this time, but he makes certain to keep an eye on her, at least until she disappears within the throng of bodies mingling about. There was an undoubted chemistry between the two, whether she was willing to admit or not. Something like static electricity; it bubbled beneath the surface and scattered to light whatever dormant fire had been smoldering inside of him since the last time he had seen her. 

  


He glances back to the forgotten glass and takes a curious sip, only to splutter and cough into a fist at the intense array of flavors there. The barista returned and looks dismayed by the sight, but he doesn't say anything at all, just looks on with his disapproval.

  


Something in his back pocket vibrates and he retrieves a device. Upon pressing a button on the side, it expands to its ordinary size and displays numerous messages from an overly concerned Mantis. Ever since she had access to his mind that one day, she had been more soft and understanding toward his behavior, more so than the others who had insisted he leave this Gamora alone.

  


Mantis had felt the intense devotion and attraction he had harbored for her, however, so she got it unlike anyone else had. And after Gamora had left the battlefield once Thanos was defeated, Mantis had came to his quarters to console him later on in the darkest of nights in the Benatar; _she had sat cross-legged upon the steel plated floor and looked up at him with those imploring, beady eyes. He pretended not to notice, head pressed back against the wall and earphones still pressed in. But she nudged him with a foot until he reluctantly removed the earphones, motioning for her to continue on with whatever she had to discuss._

  


_She tapped her two pointer fingers together anxiously, avoiding his gaze. "I have noticed how sad and lonely you have been since the departure of Gamora and—and I would like to enlist my help, if you would so allow?" She raises her fingers, wiggling them experimentally. "I can take away some of the pain and ease some of the sorrows."_

  


_Peter had halfheartedly felt that he deserved to feel the way he did, he _had_ almost damned the victory after-all, but he nodded nonetheless. She motioned a hand toward the floor beside her and he followed instructions, easing down onto the cold floor and hissing at its temperature. "What do I need to do?"_

  


_She hushes him and allows her eyes to flutter to a content close, he thinks to do the same. The pads of her fingers gingerly press against his temples, her eyes shooting open at the sheer despair that she had been suddenly overwhelmed with. But she maintains her ministrations, even as the tears steadily glide down her pale cheeks. It was worth it, however, when Peter manages a genuine smile that he had rarely expressed since Gamora's departure._

  


_When she retracts her fingers, however, his eyes are still sealed closed—the smile upon his lips remains, though, and for that she was grateful. He need not thank her, nor even acknowledge her for that matter. So, she gracefully finds her footing and makes to the leave the room, swiping at a single tear that slides down her cheek. _

  


_Her last thought before she retreated to her shared quarters with Drax was that at least for a moment, he looked peaceful and a semblance of the man she had grown fond of—something akin to a brother, one she had never had, something like family._

  


Somewhat shaken by the reverie, Peter returns back to the present, glancing about and noticing the lights had dimmed to illuminate the bodies currently slow dancing in a soft, ethereal glow. He squints as his gaze flickers back and forth between fluidly moving bodies until he finds Gamora chatting with a reserved, albeit forced, smile upon her mouth to some elderly looking man, who carries a not-so-discrete briefcase.

  


However, when he makes a motion with his hand, he notices the glint of something upon his wrist—he had been chained to the briefcase, so wherever he went, she had to accompany. He makes a contemplative noise at the back of his throat, ignoring the barista who offers him another shot. 

  


Gamora had leaned back against the towering white pillar, nodding toward the briefcase cordially. One of her hands hovers near her thigh, he assumed where a hidden holster was located with a blaster or her signature blade—how she had managed to smuggle that past security, he had no clue, but damn was the mental image attractive.

  


He can tell when the conversation turns sour based on the hostility in her stance. Numerous men dressed in similar attire zero in on the exchange and Peter, without much of a thought, makes a move. He shoves through the throng of bodies gathered around the ball room floor and bumps into one of the men who had been easing a blaster out of his blazer, noting how it goes tumbling to clatter onto the floor. 

  


He makes eye contact with the man, who scrambles for the blaster, then makes haste. He was suddenly grateful for the melody playing from the speakers aimlessly fluttering above. It doesn't take long to twist and contort himself toward the scene, finding Gamora fuming in that quiet and reserved way that she does.

  


"I must say again, I cannot and will not allow you the artifact, madam, not until my contact arrives."

  


Gamora makes a quick move for the blade undoubtedly at her thigh, but Peter stops her just in time by sliding a hand down her arm. She makes to elbow him in the face, but he knows her moves by now and dodges it with a quickness. "Ah, there you are, darling. We must, uh, be headin' out now. Pip, pip cheerio and all that." 

  


But she doesn't move a muscle, doesn't even flinch. "Not without this case." 

  


The elderly man raises his hands defensively, stirring the chains into a boisterous clatter. "My contact will be here soon—"

  


Peter exchanges a glance with the woman, who is becoming less tolerable by the second. He shrugs a halfhearted shoulder: "Well, you can tell your 'contact' to eat my ass—" he delivers a blow to the man's face, hearing the satisfying '**crunch!**' of his nose. 

  


Gamora grapples for the chained arm that flails, contorting his wrist painfully to the right, hearing the '**crack!**' it emanates. She easily slides the cuff from around his wrist, reaching instead for the handles of the case to make her exit. Peter, however, notices the men with blasters making a sprint toward their location and he grabs the other end of the case, effectively pulling her into the dancing bodies.

  


There are shrieks sounding above the sound of the music, going unnoticed by many of the guests. He uses this as a distraction, meandering through the bodies while Gamora reluctantly saunters behind him, making quick work of the briefcase password to unlock it. She retrieves the small, ornately designed artifact and abandons the useless case upon the floor for some random patron to slip on.

  


Peter, however, startles to a halt in front of her. She manages to catch herself, hands bracing herself upon his back. "Out of my way, you brute." 

  


Hesitating only the slightest, Peter turns on his heel and grabs for her hands. She retches them back with a hiss, but he rolls his eyes, grabbing onto her hands nonetheless. "Care to dance?"

  


"I've yet to encounter a man more willing to die than you."

  


Peter grins nevertheless and places a hand upon her lower back, strolling casually to the side where more bodies had gathered in some choreographed dance routine. "Hey, _hey_—" She digs her sharp nails into the calloused skin of his hands, but allows herself to be swept away. "Just follow my lead, I'll get us outta this hell hole."

  


"Oh, please. You couldn't find your way out of a paper bag."

  


Her eyes roll at the overly fond expression he wears and proceeds to stand stiff as a board. Her trained gaze looks about for the security guards bound to be heading straight for them. Peter, however, is releasing an exasperated sigh. "Loosen up, why don't ya?"

  


Gamora finds her gaze flickering back to his momentarily, brows furrowing tightly. "I would rather face a thousand deaths than ' _loosen up_ ' to your— . . . your _blatant pelvic sorcery_ !"

  


"Just look at me, make it believable till I see an opening to skedaddle." 

  


The peculiar word manages to stupefy her enough that she temporarily forgets the situation she was currently in. Instead she finds herself lured into the sight of those animated green eyes—not green like her skin, no, filled with life instead of scars, little glints that looked like the stars of the galaxy dancing within his gaze, not reflecting the nightmare her body had endured. 

  


Peter isn't looking at her for once, and she finds herself silently peeved. Not that she vied for his attentions, no, never that, but she could at least appreciate the way he looked at her; like she was more than a scarred and skeletal remnant of her previous life. Part of her desired to reach out and glide her fingers over the scruff that covered his jaw, just to feel its prickles against her skin; to feel something that wouldn't draw blood for once, but she remains diligent.

  


"Down." 

  


Gamora startles slightly and allows Peter to dip her, her hair falling like a curtain hovering just off the floor. She catches the eye of a blaster that was pointed at the back of Peter's head: "You idiot." She yanks violently at his tie, bringing his face only inches away from her own. Peter is grinning like a cat who had finally caught the canary: "Never leave yourself open for an attack." 

  


Peter smirks at her. "Is that concern?" Everyone around them had erupted in a cacophony of shrieks at the sound of gun-fire, but he felt like his blood was pumping a mile a minute, thudding within his veins. He pulls her back to her feet and she retrieves one of the small knives attached to a holster at her thigh, throwing with excellent finesse to hit one of the men in the throat.

  


Peter hums his approval as he retrieves his own blaster, maneuvering her shoulder to aim at an incoming barrage of men. Gamora sidesteps him and steps into a stride as she throws the daggers at her incoming assailants, abandoning Peter to make use of his own weapon; he was capable whether she wanted to admit or not.

  


Green eyes are too focused on the assailants approaching him to notice the absence of the woman covering him. Instead he aims the blaster at the men coming forward, smacking another on the temple to knock him out. He takes the innocents into account as he attempts to shoot an entrance for the two to escape, but Gamora is far too concerned with making her own way.

  


And apparently that was exactly what she did—she was spotted near an exit, multiple piles of men collapsed in a heap leading up to her. She spares him a glance, and she has half the mind to leave him there to clean up her mess, but decides against it.

  


"_Gamora_—!"

  


As he turns around, he fails to spot the man about to bombard him with a serrated blade. He takes a step forward, holding out an outstretched arm as if to stop her. Just as the blade digs into the skin of his bicep, slicing through the velvet material of his blazer easily, Gamora has launched forward and delivers a combo move—she uses two blades to sever the side of the man's neck, and he instantly crumples to the floor, grabbing at his neck but succumbing a second later.

  


Gamora schools her expression into one of indifference as she retrieves the small artifact, pressing her thumb against its center until it pricks her finger. Her eyes go an almost ethereal white as she gingerly grabs his bicep, the device teleporting the two back to her quarters within the ship she had stolen months prior.

  


He collapses in a heap upon the steel floor, blood seeping from the wound. He gazes up at her, panting heavily from exertion, nodding his gratitude. "Oh, oh Gods." He blinks owlishly, eyes darting from her eyes to her lips that breathe words that he cannot understand. "Oh, shit."

  


Gamora watches as his head thumps back against the steel floor, his eyes having rolled back into his head from apparent blood loss. She presses two fingers against his carotid artery, determining he was still alive, then rolls her eyes but leaves to retrieve supplies nonetheless.

  


"Finally some peace and quiet," she murmurs as she lingers within the door frame, fingers drumming against the steel wall: "though I do enjoy you kicking and screaming, too, I suppose . . . " She narrows her gaze, head canting to the side as she observes him one final, fleeting time.

  


  


-

  


  


It had taken a few hours, unbeknownst to an unconscious Peter Quill, for him to awaken from his impromptu slumber. Gamora had been busying herself with learning the basics about the artifact, writing down the processes of how it worked and operated before she would take it to her buyer—it was best to give a demonstration to buyers, to let them sample the product.

  


She had fiddled with it the first hour or so, detailing the inscriptions that were barely visible, definitely worn from use as well as the process of activating it. It tapped into the subconscious, it seemed, by the prick of the thumb. Somehow it entered the bloodstream and ventured into the mind of the user, able to transport them to wherever the user could imagine.

  


She regretted teleporting within her quarters, more so because she doesn't desire the temptation that it would bring. She sits cross-legged within her cot, staring down at him. At least she had been kind enough to prop him against the side of the cot, offering a form of back support. When his fingers begin twitching, lids flickering to life, she nudges him to the floor with her boot.

  


He tips over before he can stop himself, but thankfully lands on the good arm. He releases an outstretched and obnoxious yawn into his palm, using his hand to press himself up once more. He pauses, then, to really look around: "Oh wow, I haven't seen my floor in _forever_—" He exhales with a whistle and startles upon the sound of Gamora clearing her throat. "Oh, holy shit, you scared my balls back into my body." He places a hand upon his heart, then winces at the pain that surges through his arm.

  


"That's a better punishment for what I had in mind." Gamora laments, crinkling her nose in disdain at the disgusting mental image. " . . . for now." She adds as an afterthought.

  


Peter is prodding at the wound upon his arm, peeling back the bandage to get a better look. "Tell me you didn't cut me open while I was knocked out?" He pauses: "Did you—"

  


"The more you talk, the more I wish I would have." Gamora leans down, presses the bandage firmly back over the marred skin. "Terran organs are popular on the market recently."

  


"I'd like to keep mine inside, please." 

  


"Smart move."

  


The conversation seems to dissipate then, there wasn't much the two had in common to speak about. Well, Peter Quill always had something to say, just nothing that would be reciprocated nor accepted by the woman. She leans forward, elbow on her knees. Peter shifts, grimacing at the mild pain. He has so much on his mind, so many things to say; he just didn't know exactly how to say it or how to ask it, more like.

  


"Speak before you implode."

  


Peter is mesmerized by how well she still manages to read him, so much so that he's rendered speechless. Almost like he had forgotten what he was planning to say. Instead he reaches out wordlessly toward her, but she smacks the hand away without hesitation. He tries again, however, and she allows the gentle hand resting upon her knee.

  


"Is this—is this okay?"

  


"I've allowed it."

  


Peter nods his head slowly, but doesn't speak again. He doesn't wish to try his luck, his mouth typically getting him into trouble that he had difficulty getting out of. Right now he enjoys the warmth beneath his skin, can appreciate the bony expanse. His arm feels like it's on fire, only bits and pieces coming back to him, but he doesn't desire to ponder it now.

  


Not when she was letting him in, if only for a fraction of a moment.

  


When he chances a glance at her, he finds she has an unreadable expression that doesn't crack in the slightest, not even when she meets his gaze. He almost writhes beneath the intense glare of her eyes, but he maintains his demeanor, searching for something—anything that showed she had some recollection of what the two meant to each other. He needed her to recall something, even if just the slightest of memories, something that will show him that it wasn't all in vain.

  


"What was she like . . ?"

  


Peter utters a humorless laugh at the query; it was such a loaded question. "I could talk about this for hours." He slides the hand from her knee, down to the back of her calve, fingers feather light as he reaches her ankle before placing his hands within his lap. 

  


Gamora fights the urge to wince at the touch, the tickling sensation unfamiliar. "I'm giving you five minutes, begin."

  


"Oh." Peter blinks simply, dumbfounded by the expression within her dark eyes: "She was everything that I ever could have wanted—she was beautiful, she was smart as fuck, the smartest person I have ever met in my life." He insists, eyes bright and wide, using his hands to emphasize all the major points: "But more importantly, most importantly, she was strong—she was stronger than anyone else, maybe other than—than my mother . . . " He coughed into his fist, sniffling at the touchiness of the subject: "There wasn't anything she couldn't do, trust me on that. She never gave up, never let me give up on myself or the mission or the others . . . "

  


Gamora hums at the emotional moment he was having, somewhat missing the touch on her calve. She digs her sharp nails into the heel of her palm, doesn't need to console him. "Continue."

  


"She never gave up on herself, no matter what happened with Thanos or how she was brought up. Never let it control her, she took control of it." Peter recollects, swiping his thumb along the very tip of his nose, gaze descending to the steel plated floor below. "I mean, hell. I thought I had daddy issues, thought I had it bad, but I realize—it was how she handled it that was different, she became someone she wanted to be . . . And she did it all alone, all by herself." Peter frowned suddenly: "she never needed me, not for anything, she could do it all, but she still let me be there for her, by her side, not because I needed to save her . . . She could do that herself, you know that." Gamora manages a quirk of the mouth, listening intently: "but just because she knew that no matter what, I'd always be that smiling idiot right beside her and maybe that . . . Maybe that—"

  


" _Enough_ ."

  


The intricate barricade of her exterior was sluggishly diminishing with every word that he speaks, and deep within her, she feels a peculiar clutch around her heart. Peter is glassy-eyed, gazing up at her, bottom lip poking out into a pout. His bottom lip trembles, like he was about to burst out in tears at a moment's notice, but he doesn't—the tears may fall, but he doesn't break, he refused to break.

  


"I am not her, no matter how badly you may want me to be." Gamora's voice sounds oddly cold despite the empathetic expression she wears, lips straightening into a firm line: "I don't have the catalyst for change that she had." Gamora refers to her other self resentfully, like talking about '_her_' is distasteful and bitter against her tongue.

  


Peter looks determined, then. He rises onto his knees before her, tentatively placing his hands upon her knees. "Look at me." Gamora obliges, as surprising as it was: "she didn't need a catalyst, she just needed herself." 

  


Gamora releases a trembling breath, deciding that this was becoming far too personal. She shoves him back onto the floor and stands to her feet, shuffling toward the door. "You have five minutes to gather your things and alert your friends of your location. I want you out, and don't come looking for me again."

  


"—_But_—"

  


"Don't."

  
  
  


  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> comments? questions? concerns? 
> 
> lemme know what you think, like, or dislike. ;) <3


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